Hatred

X.

She hates that he made her wait... for an éclair.

Well... perhaps hate is a strong word for a birthday gift. But he had made her stand for an hour—an hour!—in their cold office. For an éclair. A sadly wrapped one at that, the box crushed at one corner from how tightly he gripped it.

She looks down at it, and then at him. The expression he made when he saw her reaction had sickened her. Crestfallen, absolutely crestfallen. He had worked for months on something, planning for who knows how long, only to have it go wrong in the end. She knew that feeling all too well.

They'd both laughed it off with the others, and then they'd had a grand time at the Fire Festival—though over half the participants of the Bezella pageant ended up being men, for some reason. It wasn't until she was home, comfortably dressed and relaxing before bed, that she remembered something Espella told her privately.

"At the bakery, Luke said he thought Mr. Barnham had a soft spot for you!" Espella had been giggling at the face Mr. Wright was making as he tried—albeit unsuccessfully—to be a teenage witch. She was too busy laughing to pay attention to the chord those words had struck within her friend.

The thought won't leave her alone, no matter how hard she tries to forget. In bed. A soft spot for you. Washing her face. A soft spot. Walking the winding path to the Courthouse. For you. He's already there, smiling at her as he waits beneath the sign at the crossroads. A soft spot. For you. She tastes éclair on her tongue, pulse pounding in her ears.

For... for me?

"Good morrow, Miss Eve." He is as cheerful as ever, a morning person if there ever was. "'Tis another sunny day, from the looks of it." She watches him shield his eyes with his hand, staring up at the cloudless sky visible through the trees. No. Not for me.

Luke had to have been mistaken. Now that her birthday was over, he was the same Barnham that he'd been the day before. Whatever had possessed him to stand for an hour with his eyes closed was gone. A passing folly.

"Yes, it does seem that way. I hope you're ready to work," she teases lightly, smiling to hide the pang in her chest. Indigestion, perhaps, from her breakfast. "I saw you drinking quite a bit last night." They fall into step, heading towards the construction site.

"'Twas not ale, though I wish it had been." He flashes one of his special grins, the one that makes her heart skip a beat. "That daft fool Boistrum bet twenty quid that he could drink more tomato juice than I could. Now I'm twenty richer and I've got bragging rights."

"T-tomato juice?" A note of alarm creeps into her voice. "Do you realize how acidic that is? You will be alright, won't you?" He throws an arm around her shoulders in a gesture that's quickly becoming habitual. It's all she can do not to stumble, the pang coming more sharply. Soft spot....

"Not to worry, we Barnhams have stomachs of iron!"

She hates him for being so casual with her, casual enough to make others see something that doesn't exist.